


they all want you (but i do too)

by mcgarraty



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Multi, Orgy, idek what this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 04:16:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5443019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcgarraty/pseuds/mcgarraty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neymar doesn't score in the 6-1 victory over Roma, but luckily the team is there to cheer him up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	they all want you (but i do too)

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is soooo outdated lol i wrote it after the Roma game last month, when we were on a winning streak and everyone was acting extra in love with each other, but i didn't have a chance to post it until now. sorry that it's so late and so specific to that one game! (for a refresher, the Roma game was Leo's first full game back from injury, and Neymar's first game without a goal in a while. Broberto came off with a sprained ankle.) i'm still using Ter as a nickname even though it's definitely not accurate. there are just way too many people named Marc.

They’re all buzzing when they leave the pitch, sweaty but triumphant, trying not to smile too hard. Luis walks into the tunnel behind two dull-eyed Roma players, body strung tight with adrenaline, ready for anything. Only Ney is out of it, head buried in a jersey, hand linked with Marc’s, following him off the field like a dazed kid who needs to be taken home. It’s because of the score-sheet, Luis knows, because after 5 straight games of domination, Neymar’s suddenly ashamed to be less than perfect.

“We have to make him score,” Ney had said earlier, pulling Luis against the lockers before kickoff, giggling secretive and standing on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “No matter what, Leo has to score.”

And Leo does, two brilliant goals that nobody can replicate, and he looks so happy doing it, arms wide open to catch Neymar afterwards, fingers tangling in Ney’s hair, whispering “thank you thank you,” even when Ney isn’t the one who gave the assists. Ney blushes against his chest, Luis knows him well enough to see it now: how his lashes flutter, how he ducks out from under Leo’s arm, grinning and covering it pointlessly with the front of his hand. It’s been a long time without Leo on the pitch, and Luis has missed him, but Ney has missed him more. They’ve been good without him—great, actually, toeing the line into utterly miraculous. But Leo is Leo, and when they huddle together before kickoff, the three of them conferring at the halfway line, Neymar fiddling with his socks like the child he is, flicking glances up at Leo through half-lidded, reverent eyes while Leo talks about tactics, Luis thinks: _now it’s right. Everything’s right._

Ney played so hard when Leo was injured, and the journalists wrote stuff about _freedom_ and _coming into his own,_ but Luis knows that a lot of it had to do with fear too. Ney was playing for Leo, playing so he wouldn’t let Leo down, so that Leo didn’t have to suffer, watch them fall apart from the stands, think: _God, that kid, can’t he do any better?_

Neymar played to make Leo notice, and Luis felt it, every time he caught Ney in his arms after one of them knocked back another effortless goal, felt it on Ney’s hot skin, the sweat-soaked almost-triumph, the desperation to please. To show Leo he’s worthy.

Now Leo’s back, and Neymar wanted him to score today, of course, but he also wanted to score himself, to prove it in real time, that he matters, that’s he’s someone Leo can be proud of. Ney made the game so good for everyone else, just not good enough for himself, and Luis can see the weight of it on him now, shoulders slumped, hiding behind the jersey so he doesn’t have to look at anyone straight on. Like he honestly thinks they’re going to be disappointed.

Luis wants to go over and shake him out of it, but there are too many Roma players between them, and besides Dani is already there, closing in the second the cameras get shut out at the mouth of the tunnel, locking himself around Neymar like armor and tugging the jersey from his head. Neymar’s hand slips out of Marc’s and Marc glances back to see why. Dani grins at him, reaches forward to ruffle Marc’s hair.

“Ney’s sad,” Dani explains, almost teasing, fingers stroking at the back of Neymar’s neck. “But we’re going to make him better.”

They split from the Roma players at the top of the stairs, heading to separate dressing rooms, and Luis can finally catch up, passing Ivan and Sergi in the hall. The two of them are out of breath but leaning close, conspiring together. Sergi’s curls stick in Luis’ brain when he walks by, maybe because he strokes his hand through them, just once, a fistful of silk and pretty-boy sweat and it makes Sergi spin around, lips parted in surprise, gasping a little. Luis flashes him a smile, trying not to think about it too much.

Dani and Ney and Marc turn into the dressing room and Luis is two steps behind them, catching the back of Marc’s jersey in his hand when he gets there.

“Ney’s sad,” Marc tells him, solemnly, leaning into Luis grip. 

Luis laughs and rubs his knuckles against Marc’s spine until he arches back, almost unconsciously, blinks at Luis over his shoulder like girls do when they want him, but Luis knows that’s a crazy idea, that Marc’s way too innocent to mean it that way. It’s just that they’re all a little high, on top of the world right now, irresponsible for their actions. All they have to do is bring Neymar up with them.

The dressing room is already a mess, used up kits strewn everywhere, the showers running. Jordi is sitting on a bench in the corner, face scrunched up while he tires to get his cleats untied. Geri is naked from the waist up, snapping his jersey at Ter’s back as Ter strips in front of his locker.

“You’re a beast, man,” Geri is saying. “A fucking monster.”  


“I am okay,” Ter says, still a little stumbling in Spanish, but better since he started going over to Rafa’s house every day after training. ( _He is lonely,_ Ter had explained to Luis, fighting with the Spanish words, even though Luis could’ve probably understood it in English just as well. _All alone, with the injury._ Ter shrugged. _We play FIFA, he forget._ )  


“Nah, you’re a beast,” Geri says, beaming.  


“I did not save the goal,” Ter points out. He’s got his shirt off, shoulders broad like a sculpture, ass curving huge in his shorts. Luis notices it without wanting to, regrets it immediately, like the nights when he wakes up next to the woman he married and realizes he’s hard from a dream about Neymar clinging to him on the field, or that stupid kid who keeps tossing him assists, the stupid kid and his stupid curls. Sometimes when Ter tells him about Rafa and FIFA, all Luis wants to ask is: _what else do you do?_  


“Fuck the goal,” Geri says cheerfully, snapping the jersey again, leaving a soft burn on Ter’s milky white back. “You saved the penalty.”  


“I have,” Ter agrees.  


“A beast!” Geri confirms, and Ter doesn’t blush, ever, but he bows his head a little like he’s going to, smiling at the floor when he heads for the showers.  


Ivan and Sergi come stumbling into the room, arms tangled around each others’ shoulders, still whispering about something. They slam into Luis and pull back, glancing up at him at the same time, eyes wide and glittering like boys caught in a prank they know they’re not supposed to be pulling.  


“Sorry,” Sergi says, breathless, and Luis is developing a complex, because he’s thinking about the curls again, about gripping them in his hands that day that Sergi piled on top of him after a goal, holding the kid’s head between his palms and realizing how good it felt. How easy it would’ve been to slide his hands down an inch or two and touch his lips.  


Sergi’s cheeks get red like he’s remembering it too, and he looks away in a hurry, fidgeting. They don’t really know each other, not well: Sergi is unexpected gold mined from the substitute bench and Luis came in with a 70 million euro price tag. But lately, on the pitch, the two of them feel meant to be.  


Ivan is snickering, nudging Sergi in the ribs until he has to look up at Luis again, big blue eyes and dimples that turn him frightfully young. He seems a little out of it, shyer than usual, gaze skidding from Luis' face to neck to the waist of his shorts, unwilling to meet his eyes. One of his ankles looks swollen, starting to bruise, and Luis wonders why he’s not at medical, why he’s standing here with Ivan for support, swallowing hard like he’s trying to work up his courage. Luis wonders what would happen if he told him he looks pretty.  


Then Dani say, “Hey,” and everyone snaps to attention. He’s standing by the lockers with Neymar tucked under his arm like a girl, the special kind you want to take to dinner and buy flowers for even more than fuck.  


The room goes quiet, Jordi with his cleats finally off and dangling from one hand, Geri stripped down to boxers, leaning against the wall. Adriano and Vermaelen must be in the showers already, where Ter’s just gone.  


“Ney’s sad,” Dani announces, eyes twinkling, while Neymar scoffs, wriggles in embarrassment against his chest. “Fix him, please,” Dani says.  


He shoves Ney forward unceremoniously, knowing one or all of them will step up to keep him steady. It’s all of them, as it turns out, moving in from different edges of the room to close around Neymar and each other, congealing into a circle of hot, sticky skin and rough laughter, like they do on the field. Luis ends up smashed between Marc and Ivan with Neymar squirming in the middle, Jordi and Geri crowding in from the other side. Neymar’s stopped styling his hair lately, and Luis thinks it’s brave in a way, because it makes him look so vulnerable, raw and open like he’s laying himself out for someone to take. For Leo to take, mostly.  


Neymar would probably punch Luis if he ever said that to his face, but Luis doesn’t know how to explain it, otherwise. He’s watched them dance around each other for the better part of a year, Neymar trying so hard not to be transparent, not to show too much, but painfully obvious anyway. He always acts half-drunk when Leo’s nearby, hazy and willing to do anything. Leo’s oblivious to it but sucked in all the same, touching Neymar the way Neymar touches him: too long and so much sweeter than it should be. 

Luis doesn’t know what’s going on in his own thoughts half the time, has no right to Neymar’s, but he’s willing to bet anything that part of the reason Ney wanted to score so bad today was so that Leo would hold him, afterwards.  


The circle around Neymar shifts, tightens, Ney boxed in between their bodies while they shove him around and yell too loud, Jordi making obnoxious kissy faces at him. 

“I’m fine,” Neymar says, trying to get away. “I’m okay, honestly I—”  


“You’re finished,” Geri says, pressing his forehead into Neymar’s and grinning like he’s half his age. “One game without a goal, your career is over, might as well leave now.”  


“Shut up,” Neymar whines, slapping a hand ineffectually at Geri’s iron chest.  


“Finished!” Geri yells, and gets them all chanting it, the ringleader they can’t help but follow. One of his hands comes to rest on the back of Marc’s neck, fingers splayed wide, and it makes Marc’s eyes get brighter, lips wetter, so easy for Geri’s touch. Marc’s easy for anyone, Luis supposes, but Geri’s really got a hold on him, has Marc trailing after him on the pitch and off like a faithful little shadow, dark eyes and cheekbones like a cover-girl, blinking slow like he’s got no idea how it looks.  


The circle shifts and then Luis can’t see him anymore, because Neymar’s there, shoved up against Luis suddenly by the press of bodies. For a moment their faces are so close, noses brushing, Neymar’s eyes darker than they were a second ago. Luis’ stomach flips and _God_ , he thinks, _Leo was gone a long time_. Maybe Neymar never started to worship Luis quite like that, but he might’ve gotten close.  


Luis blinks out of it, sensing danger, not wanting to ruin something fragile before it’s even begun. He pulls himself from the tangle of warm bodies, trying to be an adult, even though playing for this team makes him feel like a teenager all over again. Geri must have a similar thought, because he conducts the chorus of chanting one last time and then bows out, heading for the showers. He grabs Marc’s arm on the way, more worked up than usual, murmurs: “Wanna come?”  


Marc flushes pink like it means something else, sways in place, too flustered to respond. Geri just shrugs, grinning back at him before he ducks into the hall.  


Ivan and Jordi and Sergi stay, jumping around with Ney by the lockers, yelling, “Neymar retire!” and giggling into each others’ faces.  


They’re still at it when Leo finally makes it to the dressing room, shirtless and late from captain’s duties, shaking hands with every last Roma player and stopping to talk with Lucho in the tunnel. He looks exhausted but blissed out in a way that only comes from playing really well. That, and touching Neymar. Luis wonders when Leo’s going to figure it out.  


Leo bumps against his shoulder and grins up at Luis like he’s the best friend he’s ever had, which is not true, but makes Luis feel warm anyway, a flash of pride so strong he almost doesn’t know what to do with it. When Leo was injured, Luis took to driving him to the training ground, early morning rides with sleep in their eyes and mumbled confessions, Leo explaining he was up all night cause of that kid, _I think about that kid so much_. Luis still doesn’t know whether he meant one of his own sons, or Neymar.  


The circle of bodies in the corner of the dressing room yells and crashes into a bench, and Leo glances at Luis, quizzical.  


“Ney’s sad,” Luis says, by way of explanation, and it’s almost comical now, Neymar choking on laughter, trying to dodge Jordi’s slaps. But of course Leo takes it seriously, stepping forward, full of concern.  


“Ney,” Leo says, and just like that, the circle breaks apart. Neymar’s drawn out like the sound of Leo’s voice controls him somehow, like he’s tethered to a string, bouncing back and forth whenever Leo decides he wants him.  


He stands facing Leo, bracketed by boys on either side, Ivan and Sergi leaning against each other, Jordi still giggling helplessly. Neymar stands and stares, awestruck and eager too, like he’s seeing Leo for the first time, instead of just for the first time in ten minutes. He’s trying to be so many things at once, Luis can see them pulling at him—grown up enough for Leo to approve of, still young and sharp and dazzling enough to keep Leo enthralled. The effort holds him paralyzed, so scared of doing something wrong.  


“Leo’s here,” Dani says, gently, and it’s like a metaphorical push, the permission Neymar needs to go to him.  


“Hi,” Ney says, and lurches forward, plastering himself to Leo’s chest. He buries his head in the crook of Leo’s shoulder, nuzzling.  


Leo’s smiles down at him, instantly charmed, hands stroking across Neymar’s shoulder blades, the small of his back through the tight blue fabric of his undershirt. “You okay?” Leo murmurs, and it’s so intimate that Luis almost feels ashamed to be watching.  


“Fine, yeah, of course,” Neymar says, pulling back a little, pouting like he knows his grow-up act has failed, but doesn’t know why.  


“Luis said you’re sad,” Leo explains, and Neymar hesitates, not quite meeting Leo’s eyes.  


“Just, the penalty,” Neymar mumbles.  


Leo scoffs. “How many have I missed?”  


They’re still so close, Leo’s arms a steading force on Ney’s waist, Neymar fiddling with his shirtsleeves. Ney shrugs. “Yeah, but, I mean, I couldn’t score at all.”  


“Next time,” Leo says easily. “In two games you won’t remember any of this.”  


Neymar’s eyes flick up and Luis can almost see the question in them: _but will you?_  


“Listen,” Leo says, sensing Neymar’s doubt, even if he doesn’t understand the source. He pulls Ney closer, moving his body like he’s weightless. Neymar’s hips seem to jump forward, wanting to touch. “You’ve been so good this year. You’re going to end up way better than me.” It’s a huge admission, but Leo says it like its the most obvious thing. “You’re going to be the best in the world, don’t you know that?”  


“Stop,” Ney gasps, bashful, shaking his head.  


“It’s true,” Leo says, and Luis is in awe of him, all the time, but now especially, because it takes a fantastic kind of courage to say something like that, in front of everyone.  


“Leo, no,” Neymar says, like it’s sacrilege to even consider the idea, but blushing too, so hooked. Leo laughs at him, and Neymar wrinkles his nose.  


“Just be happy, okay?” Leo says, squeezing his hips. “I want to make you happy.”  


Neymar’s breath catches a little, and Luis thinks Leo should stop now, because it’s not fair, he’s got no idea what this means to Ney. But Leo doesn’t stop, doesn’t realize, smoothing his fingers over Neymar’s waist, so earnest and dangerously unaware. “Come on,” Leo coaxes. “Tell me what to do.”  


Neymar leans in and kisses him like he can’t help himself, quick and shameful, chapped lips pressed against Leo’s plump ones. He looks scared when he pulls back, trembling a little, trying to pretend he isn’t.  


“Love you,” Ney says, casually, like this is all a joke, like Jordi’s wet kisses on the pitch that don’t count for anything.  


Leo looks stunned for a second, blinking quick, pale cheeks flooded red. Everyone is watching them now: Sergi and Ivan pressed together side by side, Marc with Jordi hanging onto his shoulder. Luis realizes abruptly that he’s holding his breath.  


“Yeah,” Leo says finally, dazed. “Yeah, Ney, love you too.”  


He means it, Luis knows. But Neymar means it differently.  


They’re looking at each other hard, Neymar’s lips dark and open, the best kind of invitation, Leo swaying forward like he could take it. The air is so thick between them it feels like suffocation, even secondhand.  


_Just kiss him_ , Luis thinks. _Kiss him, or I swear to God, I will._  


But Leo doesn’t move, hesitates, and for an instant, Neymar looks like he’s breaking. 

Then it’s over, and Ney is grinning out of nowhere, a crooked white-toothed smile that’s so convincing Luis can’t even tell if it’s fake. He turns his back on Leo so fast, finds the first person standing nearby and latches on. It’s Dani, stripped down to just his shorts, strong tan arms and bare chest swirling with tattoos.  


“Love you,” Neymar says, and pushes up against him, demanding something back.  


“I know,” Dani says gently. He spreads his big palms over Neymar’s temples and kisses him on the forehead like a blessing.  


“Love you Marc,” Ney says, stumbling against him, grinning like he’s wasted.  


Marc laughs a little, flushed from when Geri was teasing him before, the curves of his face outlined in pink. He’s got good lips, the kind that Luis loves on girls, but his eyes are the best part, lashes so long they could tangle up, eyelids rimmed in black like he’s got pencil on. Neymar is a strange contrast in front of him, shorter and skinnier and more scarred, acne stains and stupid tattoos, but breathtaking because of it, because of all the ways he’s cracked, because he never learned to hide it. Luis can’t believe how fragile he seems now, forcing laughter and not looking back at Leo at all.  


“Love you too,” Marc says, brushing a hand against Neymar’s wrist and leaning in to kiss him on the cheek.  


“I hate you, Jordi,” Neymar says, giggling when he faces him, licking his lips. “You’re the worst.”  


“Whatever,” says Jordi, rolling his eyes. He kisses Ney on the nose, graceless and exaggerated, and Neymar makes a face, pretending it’s gross, but he still leans into the touch when Jordi trails his fingers over his shoulder-blades.  


Luis chances a glance at Leo and sees him frozen up, forehead creased down the center, watching Neymar’s loose body being passed between them and trying to work out why it bothers him so much.  


Sergi gets Neymar next, Jordi nudging Ney into his side so they both laugh and stumble back a few steps. Sergi’s ankle wavers under him and he winces in pain, biting his lip, and Luis feels fiercely protective all of a sudden, wants to step over and guide Sergi’s body to lean against his own, put his hand against the sweat-slick back of Sergi’s neck and take him to the medical room. Carry him, maybe.  


“It hurts?” Neymar asks, instantly serious, steadying Sergi before Luis can get there. “Maybe you should—”  


“No,” Sergi says quickly, and for some reason glances at Luis. “I’m good. Love you.” He sounds bashful when he says it, but he’s the first of them with the guts to give Neymar what he really wants, kissing him on the mouth, short but firm, what Ney did to Leo minus the tension afterwards, the silent, dark-eyed plea of _want me._  


Neymar gasps a little, and Sergi’s cheeks are burning, and they’re both so pretty, Luis is almost afraid to acknowledge it.  


“Nice bro,” Jordi says, smirking at Sergi after it’s done. “Taking it up a notch.”  


“Watch this,” Ivan says. He spins Neymar to face him and leans in so fast, swiping his tongue over the crest of Neymar’s lips before licking inside. Neymar makes a soft noise, like surprise or good pain, and lets his mouth go slack, wanting it. Luis feels like the floor has been pulled out from under him, can’t believe what he’s looking at, Ivan kissing Neymar so hard, totally sure of himself, like Ney’s a girl, someone he’s going to fuck right afterwards. It makes Luis dizzy, watching Ivan’s slick lips, pink tongue in Neymar’s mouth, blonde hair sticking to his cheeks, long fingers on the back of Ney’s neck to guide him when he arches. Luis doesn’t know how long it lasts, only that he’s worried about getting hard by the time it’s over, and that the temperature in the dressing room has risen by a mile.  


“Shit,” Jordi breathes, when Ivan finally ends it, licking lazily at Ney’s bottom lip before he pulls away. “Are you kidding me?”  


Ivan just laughs. His mouth is so wet, Luis can’t even understand it. Neymar sways in his grip, eyes blown wide, breathing shallow.  


“Love you,” Ivan tells him, almost carelessly, wiping Neymar’s chin where there’s spit left. He glances at Luis, cheeks sharp like dagger blades, and says: “You’re next.”  


Luis looks at Leo. He’s standing with his back pressed to the lockers, as if he needed something to lean against when people started kissing Neymar for real. His jaw is so tight, lips turned down, that childlike confusion he sometimes gets when he shoots and shoots and the ball just don’t hit the back of the net. Like he doesn’t understand why the universe is trying to hurt him. _Sorry,_ Luis thinks, feeling delirious. _Don’t you know we’re only doing this so you can too?_  


“Luis,” Neymar says, pawing at his shoulder. 

Luis turns back to him, almost sick with anticipation, so aware of Neymar’s body heat even though they’re hardly touching yet. Neymar is sweet and open in front of him, eyes dark like when Luis dreams about him, desire and something even better, like pure trust. There’s a spark of vengeance in them too, determination, Luis can see it—how much Neymar wants to glance at Leo, see if he’s watching, if he cares, how much effort it’s taking to stop himself. 

Suddenly, Luis just wants to hold him, the way Ney was hoping Leo would do, take him in his arms and keep him against his chest, smooth his hair and whisper to him until everything is okay again. But Neymar isn’t looking for that now.  


“Please,” Ney whispers, a little desperate, fingers playing at the collar of Luis’ jersey, like he thinks he has to talk Luis into doing this, putting his tongue in Neymar’s mouth so that Leo will finally realize what he’s missing. The thing is that Luis wants to do it anyway.  


“Hey kid,” he says softly, and touches Neymar’s cheek, hot skin under his fingertips, watches Neymar’s lips part like a reflex. “Love you.”  


He kisses Ney before he can think about it too much, going in fast like Ivan did, needing to prove himself. Neymar tastes like a boy, salty with sweat, like Ivan’s spit and Cheshire smile, Marc’s soft lips on his cheek, and Luis licks it all up, likes it more than he can comprehend. Neymar sways into the kiss, body lurching forward, pressing warm and flush against Luis’ front. Ney’s half-hard already, Luis can feel it against his hip, and when Luis moves, Neymar whimpers at the friction, a small, shocked sound that gets Luis hard so fast it makes his head spin.  


“Shit,” Jordi says again, strangled up.  


“Jealous?” Ivan asks.  


Neymar is trembling when Luis breaks the kiss, clutching at his shoulders like a lifeline, something he really needs. Luis feels like he’s drowning, hand on Neymar’s slender waist, holding him close, wanting him closer. He knew this was coming, sort of, that having wet dreams about boys would make him want to fuck them in real life, but he never expected it to feel like this.  


“Can I?” Luis rasps, glancing down between them at the long blue stretch of Neymar’s chest in his undershirt. 

Neymar nods feverishly, lifts his arms so Luis can peel the fabric off. His lips are swollen red, glassy eyes fixed on Luis with a devotion that makes Luis’ heart pound. He knows it’s not only for him, that most of it is for Leo, just misplaced, tries to keep that in mind while he’s tugging the shirt over Ney’s head, revealing bare chest, dark skin and pink nipples and the red waist-band of those dumb tights he’s wearing below his shorts, the fluttering muscles of his stomach.  


“Why are you so pretty?” Luis asks, a little rough, shocked by the punishing force of his own desire. Neymar laughs, self-conscious, ducks his head.  


“Look at me,” Luis says, and Neymar does, instantly. Luis kisses him again, wants to kiss him forever. He pulls back instead, catching Neymar’s face in his hands, rubbing his thumb against Neymar’s used-up lower lip until Neymar whines helplessly, leans in for more. “Leo’s turn,” Luis says.  


Neymar jolts like he’s been shocked. There’s a flicker of panic in his eyes, fear of another rejection, and Luis knows he could make Neymar do anything with that fear, anything at all, as long as Leo’s in the room. Ney would let Luis fuck him just to show Leo that someone wants to. It’s so wrong, and Luis can’t stand to watch it anymore, Neymar ripping himself open so Leo will notice, Leo watching it happen like his whole world is coming undone. Luis loves them both, more than he could’ve imagined, and it hurts him to see them hurt each other like this.  


“Come here,” Luis murmurs, and turns Neymar in his grip, walks him slowly towards the lockers where Leo is standing. Ney is shaking a little, so Luis keeps his hands on his shoulders, the sweaty hollows of his back, feeling Neymar’s hitched breath rise and fall under his palms like he’s cradling a life force. Leo stands and watches them approach, lips open, eyes glazed with that wounded kind of wonder, like he still can’t understand why it’s so devastating to see other people’s fingers on Neymar’s skin. _Because he belongs to you,_ Luis thinks, almost angry without wanting to be. _You’re just fucking blind_.  


They stop in front of Leo, Neymar with his head down, body slack like an offering. Leo’s stunned eyes find Luis over the bony curve of Ney’s shoulder, and Luis nods, presses Neymar in.  


“Try him,” Luis says. “He tastes really good.”  


Leo blinks. He’s looking at Neymar like he’s afraid of breaking him somehow, which is ridiculous, since this is the one thing that can help Neymar be fixed. Neymar shifts nervously between Luis’ palms, flushed hot and ashamed.  


“You don’t have to,” Ney whispers. “It’s stupid, I’m stupid, I shouldn’t have—”  


“I want to,” Leo says.  


Luis is still holding Neymar’s shoulders when Leo finally kisses him, and he feels the way Neymar’s body reacts, pulse thudding into overdrive at his throat, every nerve responding to Leo’s touch. It’s like holding a star while it explodes, earthshattering and glorious, Neymar’s skin burning up under Leo’s fingertips, Leo’s tongue, coaxing his mouth open.  


“Oh my God,” Jordi breathes, from somewhere behind them.  


“Fucking finally,” Ivan says.  


Leo is small and compact but he kisses like he plays, testing at first, then fast and hard and hypnotizing, hurtling straight into perfection. Neymar goes weak, lets Leo kiss him against Luis’ chest, head knocking at Luis’ shoulder as their lips collide, and Luis is so close to it, breathing them in, every little gasp of pleasure, Ney’s fluttering eyelids, Leo’s hand coming up to cup his cheek. Neymar whimpers and the sound reverberates through Luis’ body, makes his cock strain in his shorts where Neymar’s rubbing against it without meaning to, pressing back into Luis every time Leo licks into his mouth.  


“Told you,” Luis says smugly, when Leo finally pulls away, lips huge and slick with Neymar’s spit.  


Leo just stares, trance-like, touching his fingers to Neymar’s jaw, the corner of his mouth, marveling at them. Luis can see the change in Leo’s eyes, like a revelation now that he’s kissed him. Kissing Neymar is like winning, a shot of adrenaline to the blood, white hot and addictive, all for Leo to own. Luis thinks Ivan was right. Fucking finally.  


“Did you like it?” Neymar whispers. He sounds so unsure, breathless and slumped against Luis’ chest, blinking up at Leo through his lashes.  


“Yeah,” Leo stammers. “God, Ney, I—” His voice cracks, heavy with the magnitude of it. ”I didn’t know,” he says at last. It’s an apology. _I didn’t know I was allowed to want you._  


“Can you do it again?” Neymar asks, and Leo leans in, kisses him in answer. Ney is trembling by the end of it, heartbeat a hectic patter against Luis’ skin, chest heaving like he’s overwhelmed, can’t believe this is real.  


“Hey,” Leo says gently, and Neymar breathes out: “ _Leo,_ ” small and wondrous, throws his arms around him tight, buries his forehead in the side of Leo’s neck like he wants to hide there.  


“I missed you so much,” Neymar stammers. “I miss you even when you’re here, when you stop looking at me. I’ve wanted you to kiss me for so long, I thought I was going to die.”  


“I didn’t know,” Leo says. His hands are in Neymar’s hair, trying to soothe him. “Ney, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize—”  


_You’re fucking blind_ , Luis thinks again, but maybe it was more than that, maybe Leo was also being careful. Neymar is so young, brilliant and really beautiful, too trusting for his own good. The whole world wants something from him, and maybe Leo didn’t think it was fair to be one of the people who asked.  


“It’s okay,” Neymar says, a little hazy, rubbing his lips into the side of Leo’s throat like comfort or compulsion. “I forgive you. Just…please don’t go away for a while. I get so cold when you’re not touching me.”  


“Ney,” Leo says, broken up, and when Neymar raises his head and brushes their lips together again, Leo kisses him like a promise, like he’s trying to make up for the hurt he’s done, when he was only trying to protect Neymar instead. Ney falls into it so gratefully, arms hooked around the back of Leo’s neck, body pressed in close like he’s basking in Leo’s warmth, gasping a little when Leo bites softly at his lip.  


There are padded footsteps behind them from the direction of the showers, and Luis looks back to see Ter emerging from around the corner, naked except for a towel tied around his waist.  


“Marc!!” Jordi yelps. “You have to kiss Neymar.” He sounds slightly hysterical, both hands covering his cock through his shorts, like he can’t believe he’s gotten hard from this. “Everybody else is doing it.”  


Ter looks around the dressing room, taking it in: Neymar pressed tight between Leo and Luis, Leo’s lips teasing at his throat, the underside of his jaw, making him shudder.  


“Much thanks,” Ter says politely. “But I am having girlfriend.”  


Ivan snorts from the left. “That’s not what Rafa says.”  


Ter turns to face him with perfect composure, and they could be speaking in German, but Ter goes for Spanish instead. “You are bitch,” he says, very coolly.  


Ivan laughs, head thrown back, teeth flashing white. Luis has always thought he looks like a model, angel-blonde hair and those sparkling green eyes, but he’s got a wicked streak to go along with it, coaxing the rest of them to limits they never thought they’d reach. He’s got one hand on the back of Sergi’s neck now, fingertips pressing slowly into Sergi’s curls, making him rock up unconsciously. Luis finds it hard to tear his eyes away from that, only manages when he feels Neymar squirming against him, needy, aborted movements that go straight to Luis’ cock.  


Leo’s is kissing down Ney’s throat, sucking on the skin, and Neymar is making these little choked sounds, fingers tangled in Leo’s hair, rolling his hips up in tiny bursts, like he’s afraid of being found out.  


Luis smirks, slides his hands down and grips Neymar’s waist to help him do it, guiding Neymar to rub off properly against Leo’s front. Both of them startle at the feeling, Leo groaning into Neymar’s skin, Neymar arching hard, and Luis has to bite his tongue to keep from imitating them, dizzy with effort and arousal, his cock pressed tight against the hot swell of Neymar’s ass, trying so hard not to take advantage.  


“Leo,” Ney gasps, clutching at his hair, rocking up into him. “Leo, please—”  


“Tell me what you want,” Leo says unsteadily, pulling off Neymar’s throat to catch his lips again, loose and sliding.  


“I want you to like me,” Neymar says, too dazed to be ashamed of it. “Even though I’m boring and dumb and never shut up. Even though I missed the penalty. I just, I just always want you to like me.”  


“Ney,” Leo says, sounding stricken. “I’ve never met anyone I like as much as you.”  


It’s soft and simple, but Luis knows that it’s the biggest confession of all.  


“Okay,” Neymar breathes, sensing the truth in the words, the tremor in Leo’s voice. “You can fuck me if you want to, I promise it’ll be good.”  


“Oh my _God_ ,” Jordi says, and Luis looks back in time to see Ivan grab him by the collar and kiss him to shut him up.  


Leo goes still, back flat against the lockers like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. “You want that?” he stammers, and it’s sort of mind-blowing, how Leo can have Neymar in his arms and still not realize how desperate Ney is, for whatever Leo is willing to give him.  


“Since I met you,” Neymar mumbles, hiding in his neck again. “All the time.”  


A shudder runs through Leo’s body, eyes hazy with fear and desire. “Have you ever—”  


Ney nods quick, not even breathing enough. “Rafa taught me, it’s easy, feels so good.”  


Leo seems floored for a second, swallowing hard. “Okay,” he stammers. “Yeah, Ney, fuck, okay.”  


Leo kisses him suddenly, and Luis kind of wants to laugh and kind of wants to smack them both for taking so long to understand each other like this. Ney’s fumbling at his own waist, wanting his shorts off, and Luis helps him do it, hooks his fingers in and slides the fabric down his legs so Neymar can kick them away. The tights stick to his skin underneath, turning Ney’s legs pink-red and sleek like a girl’s. Luis wants to feel them, can’t hold back any longer, trails his fingers up the back of Neymar’s silky thighs and digs his nails in. Neymar makes a broken sound into Leo’s mouth, presses back for more, and Luis gives it to him, teasing up Neymar’s legs and tearing runs in the tights, kneading his fingers into the soft muscle of Neymar’s ass and imagining Leo’s cock inside it.  


There are more footstep behind them, someone else coming back from the showers—Geri wrapped in a towel, whistling under his breath, stopping dead when he sees the room. Ter’s just leaving, dressed and slipping out the door to his precious Rafinha. Dani has moved to sit on the bench in front of his locker, arms folded lazily over his chest, amused and vindicated too, like he’s of proud of what he’s seeing, the mess of Neymar and Leo, wrapped up in each other against Luis’ chest, like he planned on it happening all along. Maybe he did.  


Sergi and Marc are standing in the center of the dressing room, shell-shocked and breathing too quick, not sure where to look. Sergi’s eyes find Luis for an instant, and his body seems to sway like he wants to come towards him, isn’t sure it’s allowed. Ivan has Jordi back against the lockers, hand down the front of Jordi’s shorts, pumping fast.  


“For Christ’s sake!” Geri yells, scandalized by the room at large. “Can’t you people keep it in your pants?”  


Neymar whirls to look at him, bold and unguarded now, as if being touched by Leo has given him all his courage back. “Shut up,” he says breathlessly. “Like Marc didn’t suck you off in the showers after Villareal.”  


Marc makes a stunned, terrified noise, and Jordi starts to giggle madly, mouth smearing against Ivan’s cheek. “No fucking way, man,” he gasps. “No fucking way!”  


Geri scowls, bare chest coloring a little, but he doesn’t really look embarrassed, just miffed at being found out. Marc looks like he wants to disappear, flushed so red, huge, dark eyes fluttering in shock. It’s kind of charming, Luis thinks, but it also makes him vulnerable, and it’s sweet when Geri goes to him, crosses the room and grabs Marc from behind, pulls him against his shower-damp chest.  


“Don’t listen to them,” Geri says gruffly, arms snaked around Marc’s middle, chin on his shoulder, making Marc’s body curl helplessly into his own. “They just want a piece of this sweet ass.”  


“Gross,” Marc says, but he shivers when Geri kisses the back of his neck, beard scratching at the pale skin.  


“Are you hard?” Geri asks him, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.  


Marc flushes deeper, which Luis didn’t think was possible, but his hips shift a little in answer. Geri grins against his neck.  


“Come on, princess,” he says. “I’ll take care of you.”  


He coaxes Marc’s jersey up and over his head and nudges him forward to the lockers, presses Marc against them chest-first, Marc’s forehead rubbing at the metal. It looks easy, natural, and Luis finds himself wondering how many times they’ve done it before. Geri’s hair is wet, dripping down his back, one hand braced on the locker over Marc’s shoulder, the other slipping around to Marc’s front. Luis can hear it when Geri starts to jerk him off, because Marc’s breath gets all high and broken, and Geri is whispering to him, mouthing pretty words into the slope of his shoulder.  


Luis is jolted out of it by Neymar moving against his chest, shoving at his tights, trying to get them off. They’re a mess, fabric worn thin and sticky with sweat, already tearing from where Luis dug his nails in, and Ney’s hands are shaking so much that when he tries to slide the tights down they rip completely, splitting open at the crotch, the legs separating from each other so they look like thigh-highs, pink and clinging to his legs. Ney scrambles for his boxers next, but Leo stops him, squeezing his hips.  


“Slow down,” Leo says. “Show me how.”  


“On the bench,” Ney says, sounding drugged, rocking forward into Leo’s palms like he was made to fit there.  


There’s a low bench a little to the left of every locker, barely three feet from where they are now, but neither of them make any move to get it, Neymar too frantic, Leo too busy trying to keep him grounded. Luis goes to get it for them instead, detaching himself from the hot tangle of their bodies, which is probably a good idea anyway, because Neymar is making those soft, whimpering noises again, and Luis so fucking hard, two breaths from doing something stupid.  


He kicks the bench over so it’s right next to where they’re standing, and touches the back of Neymar’s neck to tell him, but Ney seems really gone now, eyes glittering like he’s high or sick or mesmerized, vision narrowed down to Leo and nothing else.  


Leo is the one who looks up instead, and for a second Luis is alone with him in a car on an overcast morning, learning about his secrets in the slow, accidental way that happens when you trust someone so much you simply forget how to hide. Leo’s eyes are wide and soft and unreasonably grateful. _Thank you._  


Luis shrugs it off. _Always._  


“Here,” Leo says, touching Neymar’s chin to show him the bench. “Okay?”  


“Yeah,” Ney breathes, and pushes Leo down so his back is against lockers, sinks into his lap hot and fast, straddling him. It’s sloppy when they kiss, both of them desperate for it now, and Ney is fumbling for his boxers again, the ruined tights still clinging to his legs above his socks and muddy cleats.  


“God, you’re beautiful,” Leo says, when Neymar is naked in his lap, cock hard and rubbing at Leo’s stomach. He sounds reverent, thumbs drawing circles in the smooth skin of Neymar’s hips, staring up at Neymar like he’s the only thing in the world worth having.  


Neymar shudders, squirming closer to Leo’s chest, and Luis is transfixed, obsessed with watching them, the way they fit together, Neymar dark everywhere Leo is pale, Neymar defenseless and needy, tearing down Leo’s self-control. They’re kissing again, and Leo’s hips are twitching up into the spread of Neymar’s thighs, and Luis doesn’t give a shit anymore, reaches down to touch himself, because he’s waited long enough, and they look like some kind of perfection.  


He stops short because Sergi is suddenly standing in front of him, curls matted sideways across his forehead, blue eyes rimmed in sweat. He looks scared, almost, and when he swallows, the hitch of his throat makes Luis want to lick it.  


“You can have me,” Sergi says. “If you want.”  


Luis hears himself laugh, not even meaning to, just a reflex to stop himself from saying: _God yes._  


“Come here,” he says instead, and tugs Sergi in by the front of his jersey, kisses him so hard it makes Sergi gasp, mouth going slack, letting Luis in. Sergi’s sturdier than Neymar, taller, feels even more like a boy when he stumbles against Luis’ chest, but Luis fucking loves it, the hot weight of Sergi’s body, the friction of his lips under Luis’ tongue. It’s an effortless connection, like what they have on the pitch: Sergi young and willing, giving him everything, Luis taking it and showing him how to make it even better.  


Luis ends it when they’re both breathless, Sergi blinking up at him with heavy eyes, swollen lips, already wrecked even though Luis hasn’t done anything but kiss him yet.  


“I was having dreams about you,” Luis says, cradling Sergi’s face in his palms, feeling like he’s just discovered something precious. “I didn’t even realize you could play and then all of a sudden you were everywhere, you’re really fucking good, do you know that?”  


Sergi’s blushes under Luis’ fingertips, cheeks flooding with warmth, but he stays quiet, pliant in Luis’ hands, like he’s waiting to be used. Luis gets dizzy from the idea, strips Sergi out of his jersey and then tugs his own off, pulls Sergi against him rough and quick, their bare chests sticking with sweat, cocks rubbing through their shorts. Sergi makes a soft, shocked sound, mouth hot against Luis’ shoulder-blade, and Luis feels like he’s losing his mind, wants to hold Sergi against the lockers and fuck him, and maybe also tell him that he’s lovely, kiss his curls, touch him slow and coaxing until he comes in his underwear.  


Then, to the right, Leo breathes, “shit, Ney,” and Luis has to look over, sees Neymar slipping two of his own fingers into his mouth, sucking hard and fast and silent, getting them wet. He’s moving a little while he does it, hips rocking helplessly in Leo’s lap, but it’s his mouth that makes Luis stare, the way his cheeks are hollowing out, his slick lips, smearing spit everywhere.  


Luis looks back at Sergi, ready to beg him, but Sergi knows already, blinks once and wets his lips, and then he’s sinking to his knees in front of Luis, just like that. He pulls Luis’ shorts and boxers down in one motion and closes his mouth around Luis’ cock.  


“Fuck,” Luis breathes, at the same time as Neymar reaches back and puts his fingers inside himself.  


Luis’ vision goes hazy, a feverish blur of Neymar’s arched spine, Sergi’s curls between his legs. Sergi’s mouth is velvet heat, his tongue soft and swirling over Luis’ cock, swallowing him down. He’s better than anyone Luis has had, ever, and Luis has had a lot.  


Luis sways on his feet, lightheaded, reaching out to steady himself with a hand on Leo’s shoulder. Neymar is there a second later, hand closing over Luis’ when he rocks up in Leo’s lap, fucking himself on his fingers and needing something to hold onto.  


Leo’s watching Neymar like he’s in a daze, can’t believe what he’s seeing, can’t believe it’s for him. Neymar is gasping so prettily, head thrown back, forehead coated with sweat, cleats scraping rhythmically at the bench under him, carving out dents in the wood.  


“You look so good,” Leo says, touching Neymar’s hips while Ney stretches himself on his fingers. “God Ney, you look like heaven is supposed to be.”  


He sounds delirious when he says it, but Luis thinks it’s true anyway.  


“Leo,” Ney breathes, and there’s something in the haze of his eyes that Luis recognizes, more than just want, more than desperation. It’s: _I love you I love you I love you._ But Neymar doesn’t say it out loud, this time.  


Sergi’s nose bumps against Luis’ pelvis, taking him so deep, and Luis has to bite off a moan, reaching down to grip at Sergi’s curls, tight, sweat-soaked ringlets under his fingers, scraping his nails in. Sergi whimpers around his cock, one hand falling from Luis’ hip to touch at his own, cupping himself through his shorts.  


“Where did you learn,” Luis breathes out. “Where the fuck did you learn how to do this?”  


Sergi’s lashes flutter and he pulls back a little, Luis’ cock sliding to the edge of his lips so Luis can feel the vibrations when he answers. “With Marc,” Sergi says hoarsely. “We used to fool around before he went to Stoke.”  


“What the hell,” Jordi snaps, breathless but indignant across the room, somehow managing to listen to all of their conversations even though Ivan’s jerking him off quick and kissing his jaw. “Has everyone on this team been fucking without me?”  


Ivan makes an impatient noise, hisses: “Shut up and come,” and a second later Jordi does, small body curling in on itself, biting down on Ivan’s shoulder to muffle the sound.  


Sergi has his mouth on Luis' cock again, and Luis feels like he’s being stretched into a million pieces, pulled apart by how good it is, Sergi’s soft curls under his fingers, the heat of his mouth, and the way Sergi is starting to tremble, fucking up into his own hand like he could come from this, from Luis’ cock in his mouth, Luis’ hands in his hair, holding him in place. Luis wants to let him, but he also wants to touch Sergi, for real.  


Then: “Are you sure—” Leo breathes, and Luis glances over again, sees Leo with his shorts and boxers pushed down, cock slicked up with something like lotion from one of the lockers, Neymar gasping “yeah,” as he sinks down onto him.  


Leo’s head knocks back against the lockers, eyes slipping shut, grip so tight on Neymar’s hips, like he’s afraid if he doesn’t keep touching him, Neymar will just slip away. Neymar is shivering a little, settling onto the stretch of Leo’s cock, breathing quick. His thighs tremble when he rocks up, starting out slow, hands on Leo’s shoulders while he rides him.  


“Ney,” Leo stammers, more blown apart by this than Neymar is, maybe because it’s his first time with a boy, with this boy, the only one who counts. Luis can imagine it—the impossible heat, the tightness, Leo losing himself in Neymar’s near-perfect body, in his brilliant, fucked up soul. “God, Ney, I’ve never, I’ve never felt—”  


“Told you it’d be good,” Ney says dizzily, rolling his hips faster, building a rhythm. “I knew you’d want me, somehow.”  


“Of course I want you,” Leo says. He catches Neymar’s cheek, tilts his face down so their eyes meet, Leo’s lust-dark but so honest, Neymar’s clouded up with uncertainty, desire, hope. “I want you so much, Ney, don’t you understand that?”  


Luis thinks Neymar does, sort of, but there’s always that doubt, the fear that he’s not enough, never quite enough for Leo to need, to keep, to love.  


“Can you,” Neymar whispers. “Can you say it—”  


“I want you,” Leo says, hand on the back of Neymar’s neck so their eyes stay locked, fucking up to meet Neymar’s hips when they rock down. “I want you, I want you so much, I’m so lucky, I get to have you when no one else does.”  


Neymar’s whole body seems to react, curling into Leo like he’s oxygen, like there’s a fire inside Neymar, and only Leo can keep it burning. Leo touches his fingers to Neymar’s lips, leans up and kisses him, and then Luis has to look away, because they’re too good together, it’s almost unfair to watch, and besides, Luis has a boy of his own to think of. Sergi’s gone so quiet between his legs, rocking up a little desperately into his own hand, curls brushing at Luis’ thighs while he works his mouth fast and diligent around Luis’ cock. Luis feels heat pooling in his stomach, knows he isn’t going to last much longer like this.  


“Stop,” he gasps, tugging at Sergi’s curls. “Stop, I’m close, I want to touch you.”  


Sergi pulls off, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and climbs to his feet obediently, a little unsteady on his bruised ankle, swaying into Luis’ chest.  


“Sorry,” Sergi says, voice gone all raspy, cheeks red.  


Luis feels an unexpected rush of affection for him, kisses Sergi on his ruined lips and strips his shorts off, asking: “For what?”  


He lifts Sergi easily off the ground, flips them so that Sergi’s back is against the lockers, Luis pressed into his front, pinning him there. Sergi’s legs dangle down, hooking automatically at the curve of Luis’ back, and his cock rubs between their chests, hard and wet and slick with precome. Luis gets a hand around him, doesn’t even care about himself any longer, just wants to make it good for this kid in his arms, this shy, unfathomable tangle of limbs, long dark lashes and glassy blue eyes. Sergi rocks into Luis’ touch, almost startled by it, lips parting silently, looking at Luis like he wants permission.  


“Come on,” Luis says, stroking him, licking up the line of Sergi’s throat and digging his teeth in a little. “You did so good, I’ve got you, come on.”  


Sergi gasps, arches, and comes in Luis’ hand, just like that. He clings to Luis through the aftershocks, arms tangled around Luis’ shoulders, breath soft at Luis’ neck, and Luis is so close now, vision already blacking out at the edges, cock rubbing against the smooth curve of Sergi’s thigh as Sergi trembles against him.  


Luis lifts Sergi’s body a little higher with one arm and reaches down to touch himself, quick and frantic, chasing release. All it takes is one look over at Neymar, flat on his back on the bench with Leo fucking him for real, kissing him like they’re the only people left on earth, touching him between their stomachs. Neymar’s so lost in it, eyes glazed over, fingers digging into Leo’s back like he never wants to let go, and when Leo makes Neymar come, Luis comes too, burying his head in Sergi’s neck, the soft sweetness of his curls, striping Sergi’s pretty legs with white.  


Luis winds down from it with Sergi slack in his arms, both of them shaking a little, trying to get their breath back. Luis’ muscles are starting to ache, but he feels strangely high still, not ready to let this end. Sergi shifts against him, thighs wet with Luis’ come, and shivers like he likes it.  


“You okay?” Luis asks, grinning at him.  


“Yeah,” Sergi says, thick and sleepy. “Good, really good.”  


Luis is so fond of him now, adjusts him in his arms, doesn’t even want to put him down. Sergi’s bruised ankle bumps against Luis’ back, and Sergi winces, remembering the pain now that everything else is over.  


“How bad is it hurt?” Luis asks.  


“Not bad,” Sergi says, but the way he blinks at tears tells Luis that it’s a lie.  


“I’ll clean you up,” Luis says. “Take you to medical.”  


Sergi looks surprised, like he expected Luis to ditch him as soon as Luis got what he wanted.  


“Thank you,” Sergi says, and Luis wants to ask him something about his life, what he likes, what he does when he’s not here with them, who his friends are, what he’s scared of when he goes to sleep at night. Luis wants to know him, for real. It seems terribly important all of a sudden, understanding the boy he’s holding against his chest. It seems terribly important to make sure he’s always okay.  


But Luis has never been very good with words, not when it matters. Instead, he says: “Having you on the field makes me play better.”  


Sergi blinks at him with drowsy, half-lidded eyes. Luis doesn’t usually think of him as vulnerable, but he seems it, now.  


Softly, Sergi says: “I love the way you look at me when you score. It makes me feel like I mean something.”  


“Can I kiss you?” Luis asks, desperate to do it again, not sure if he’s still permitted to have Sergi like that.  


Sergi nods, blushing. “You can kiss me anytime,” he says, so Luis does. He plans on doing it a lot.  


Luis carries him to the showers, glancing back at the dressing room on the way. Leo’s got Neymar curled in his arms on the bench, must’ve come while Luis was distracted, silently, but there are red marks on Neymar’s chest where it looks like he drowned out the sound. Neymar is shivering and exhausted against him, skin coated with sweat, tattoos glistening. Leo just lies still and holds him.  


Geri’s still got Marc pressed against the lockers across the room, but they’ve both come, Luis can tell from how loose their bodies are, from how Geri’s using his wet towel to clean off Marc’s lower back. He tilts Marc’s head against his shoulder to kiss his cheek, and it’s such a tender movement that Luis wonders why he didn’t figure out about the two of them sooner.  


Jordi is slumped on the ground by the lockers with his legs sprawled out, like they collapsed under him after Ivan got him off. Ivan’s on the bench nearby, a little breathless, pulling a hand out of own his shorts where there’s a wet spot blooming on the front. Jordi kicks at him playfully, grinning and jostling his leg.  


“Why did you say _Alen_ when you came?” Jordi asks. “You’re such a perv, he’s like twelve years old.”  


“Fuck off,” Ivan says, color high in his cheeks, looking flustered for the first time. “You know he’s nineteen.”  


Luis snickers, regrets that he missed that, that he missed all of them, wants to see it again. He doesn’t even question the desire anymore, not when Sergi’s in his arms, letting him kiss his neck, play with his curls, not when Neymar and Leo are looking at each other like they’ve finally found the center of the universe.  


“Are you happy?” Leo murmurs, stroking Ney’s hair.  


Neymar blinks up at him like it’s a trick question. “Are you?”  


“Yeah,” Leo says, and smiles so bright he looks like a kid again. “A lot. God, Ney. So happy. I love you.”  


Neymar’s eyes get huge, disbelieving. “What did you say?”  


“I said, I love you,” Leo breathes, and kisses him without hesitating at all.

**Author's Note:**

> title from the song by lissie.


End file.
